


All that Glitters Is Not Gold

by medieval_scribe



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medieval_scribe/pseuds/medieval_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A final conversation between Anne and Richard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All that Glitters Is Not Gold

**All that Glitters Is Not Gold**

Richard's tread falls heavy on the stone floor as he walks to his chambers. A whirlwind chases through his mind, of court, of Tudor. Each day brings only new doubts and little comfort, and there is no seeming end to the turmoil around him. 

He's brought out of his thoughts by the slight figure at the end of the corridor, dropping a deep curtsey as she awaits his attention. 

"Cecily." 

"Sire." She is attentive but wary. "Her Grace asks if you will see her this evening."

Richard takes in a shaky breath. It has been weeks since he's been in his wife's presence, banished first by the court physician and later by Anne's reproach, a siege wall of silence that even his deepest contrition cannot breach. But now she's asking for him, and fear lances through his heart. 

"Is she…?" His voice trails off, unable to give word to the inevitable. 

"No, Your Grace. She is the same." 

He nods and gives his niece his arm, as decorum requires. At this, a bubble of untimely laughter rises in his throat and it takes all his control to swallow it down. There is no decorum in his court, only calculation and misdeed. Cecily, so different from her sister, knows this and gently refuses the gesture. She meets his eyes for just an instant, and in the cool blue of her gaze, he sees a true reflection of himself, of what he has become. He has the grace to be ashamed, but before he can explain himself, her eyes slide back to the floor. 

Richard clears his throat and allows her to lead the way to Anne. "It would not be seemly to keep my lady waiting."

\--

He is surprised to discover Anne is not in bed. Instead, she's sitting before the fire, her eyes fixed on the playing cards before her. At the sight of him, her ladies scuttle off and melt into the shadows. For the first time in weeks, he is alone in a room with his wife, and realizes with sadness that he does not know how to be with her, not anymore. 

"Richard. You've come." Her voice is small but even, and he's pleased at the absence of any bitter edge. 

"You look…"

"Well?" she finishes, giving him a tired half-smile. 

"Regal," he counters, and means it. Despite the waxy pallor of her skin and the fevered brightness of her eyes, for all that her hair is still loose and she is in her night clothes, she looks as stubborn and determined as ever. Not for the first time, she puts Richard in mind of Warwick, and for once, he's glad of the comparison. 

She waves him into the chair in front of her. "Will you play?" 

Anne is good at games of chance, but not especially sporting when she loses. He offers to deal the cards so he can ensure she'll win, as he did when they were children at Middleham. 

He's halfway through when she catches the train of his thought. "I miss it, you know. Middleham. I promised Margaret and Teddy I'd take them. It will be nice to go home again."

"Yes. Perhaps next month. The dales will be snowed in for a few weeks yet." His words surprise even himself. They both know the end is near, that she will never leave London. But he allows that pretending is harmless enough, especially if it brings Anne some comfort. 

They talk idly through a game of All Fours, gossiping about the north, sharing news that comes to Anne in letters from her kinfolk. It feels almost normal, and a tiny ember of hope begins to grow in his heart. She wins the first four hands easily, even without his help. 

"It is passing strange, isn't it?"

The change in tone is so sudden it catches him off guard. "What?" 

"That I should keep winning at cards when I have lost at everything else." She begins to laugh, an odd and mirthless bark that ends in a sudden fit of coughing. The spasm racks her body and she coughs so hard she brings up blood. 

This ends all the pretense between them, and at once, he's on his knees in front of her, holding her in his arms and rubbing her back until the fit passes and her raspy breath steadies. He kisses her forehead wanting only to comfort her, but abruptly, she squirms out of his embrace. She glares at him, eyes brimming with half-shed tears, cheeks hot with anger.

"I hear rumour that I am already dead. That you intend to marry _her_." She spits the words out at him. "That _you_ are the one that put these rumours about in the first place. Is it true?" 

Richard swallows the lump in his throat and averts his eyes, hesitating as he casts about for the right words. He's never lied to her and he refuses to shame her now with falsehood. "Yes," he says, his voice breaking. "But it is meant only to deter Tudor." He takes her hand, frail and bloodless. "There's no truth to it. You know this. Whatever else I have done, I promise I have never wished you dead."

She is quiet for a long time, and silence flows dark between them, a river of words said long ago and those that will never now be said. She raises her eyes to his, no reproach in them now. "Do you love me, Richard? Truly?" 

This time, there is no hesitation. "Always. There's only ever been you." 

She smiles at him, small and sad. "Then you must let me go."

The sudden command unmoors him. He's known for weeks that Anne is not long for the world, but to hear the words from her is so brutal a hurt, it drives all thought from his mind. "No, no," he falters. "Anne…" The words will not come, so instead he embraces her, clinging desperately to her wraith-thin body, like a drowning man clutching at the reeds. 

She relents, and as she's done so many times before, she holds him to her bosom and gives him what comfort she can. "I thought being queen would make me happy. But it's all dross, love. I'm very tired now. I want to go. See my sister again, our little boy again." She presses her lips to his, a final gesture. "Let me go. Let it end."

\--

Richard stands his ground as the battle rages all around him. The world is all noise, a cacophony of clinking harness and clashing steel. The ground vibrates with the hoofbeats of a thousand mounts, and everywhere, there is the smell of blood and sweat. 

He is surrounded by men, and it is only when they begin to hack at him that he understands they're not his. He is betrayed, but he feels no anger. There is the sensation of blood pouring into his armor, but he can no longer see, and all the noise is drowned out by the rush of sound in his own head. 

It's all dross, he thinks. 

_Let it end._

**Author's Note:**

> Anne lamenting rumours that she's already dead and that Richard is responsible for the rumours comes from Holinshed's Chronicles: 
> 
> "After this he procured a common rumor (but he would not haue the author knowne) to be published and spred abroad among the common people, that the queene was dead....Now when the queene heard tell that so horrible a rumor of hir death was sprung amongst the communaltie, she sore suspected and iudged the world to be almost at an end with hir. And in that sorowfull agonie she with lamentable countenance and sorowfull cheare, repaired to the presence of the king hir husband, demanding of him what it should meane, that he had iudged hir worthie to die.
> 
> The king answered hir with faire words, and with smiling and flattering leasings comforted hir, and bid hir be of good cheere, for (to his knowledge) she should haue no other cause."


End file.
